Good luck, my heart
by Lantia4ever
Summary: As the long forgotten events of the past start resurfacing, rather than Moriarty it is someone else Mycroft fears returning and if he's right, no one is safe. Question is, will he be able to keep his brother and everyone around him away from harm this time? [Mystrade, bits of Johnlock]
1. Prologue - Easter is coming early

**Title:** Good luck, my heart

**Genre:** General/Suspense/Crime/Hurt/Comfort

**Spoilers:** Takes place right after S3, so all the way there

**Warnings:** Mild language, violence and suggestive themes; rated T for now

**Characters:** Mycroft-centric, Lestrade, Sherlock, John, _Anthea_, minor appearances of others, minor OC's

**Pairings:** subtle hints of Johnlock & Mystrade, bits of John/Mary; all might change as the story goes

**Summary:** As the long forgotten events of the past start resurfacing, rather than Moriarty it is someone else Mycroft fears returning and if he's right, no one is safe. Question is, will he be able to keep his brother and everyone around him away from harm this time?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, most of the characters, not even Moffat. I do want to own a teeny tiny Moffat so I could let him swim in the buckets of my tears ^^ All of that belongs to their respective owners, ACD, BBC, Moffat & Godtiss,...

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**Prologue - Easter is coming early**

"_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you -"_

"I think we've heard enough of that already, Sherlock?" John said with a grimace, pausing the video with an overly violent click of the spacebar.

The man in question simply stared at the frozen image for a while longer before acknowledging John's words with a dismissive wave of his right hand.

"Noticed anything?" Lestrade's voice broke the momentary silence from where he was seated in the sofa in the opposite side of the room, but Sherlock paid him no attention. Instead of answering the DI's question he glanced at his brother, casually standing at the door as if prepared to leave at any moment.

"This is hardly a reason to raise the terror alert to critical nation-wide, Mycroft," he said mockingly, watching Mycroft shift his weight, not moving from the convenient spot by the exit.

He smirked, facing Sherlock with an unamused glint in his eyes. "Nor it is a reason enough to let you get away with murder yet here you are."

"Yes, like a small wooden chess piece moving to the whims of your masters. Maybe I would have been better off in Eastern Europe right now after all."

"Eh, no, Sherlock, no you wouldn't," John said, frowning at the consulting detective. "Are you saying this is not Moriarty?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. "He shot himself. In the head. Right in front of me!"

"You jumped off a building! Right in front of me!" John countered.

"That was a completely different situation, I have - "

"No it wasn't. You faked your death and so could he!"

"It's NOT Moriarty!" Sherlock snapped, earning curious looks from everyone present.

Choosing this moment to intervene, Mycroft cleared his throat. "Whoever created and broadcasted this message has clearly set his mind on bringing James Moriarty back. Whether in a physical form is yet to be revealed. What _is_ important as of this moment is that someone is using the face of an infamous criminal to spread panic among the citizens of this great nation all the while stirring the waters of the criminal underworld. I want him found," he stated firmly, looking pointedly at his little brother.

Sherlock glared back, narrowing his eyes. "Interesting. So all it takes is a face and a very bad attempt at voice distortion and the British Government reduces to seeking help from murder convicts. Interesting indeed."

"You were never convicted," John mutters.

"And yet still received a death sentence," he whispers back. "And now I'm on a house-arrest it seems," he turned back to Mycroft watching his face twist into a scowl.

"Don't be so dramatic, brother dear. You are merely…grounded, for the lack of a better word. Find this person and whatever it is he plots and we will discuss further details of your punishment then," he grinned and turned to leave only to stop to the sound of John's voice.

"What if you're wrong. What if it _is_ Moriarty, no, Sherlock, you can't be sure!" he stopped Sherlock before he could say anything. "I don't need to be a Holmes to know the only possible reason for him to come back from the dead is so he can finish what he started. Continue the game you denied him to play. Needless to say I'm not at all interested in another year playing cat and mouse with the most insane man I've ever met! And I'm still having trouble deciding which one of you that is."

Sherlock frowned at the little outburst but said nothing.

"I assure you, Doctor Watson, that you are perfectly safe. You and Mrs. Watson both," Mycroft added.

"Oh I'm feeling better already," John scoffed and turned to Lestrade instead. "Is the Yard launching an investigation on this?"

"Wanted to. But _someone_," he eyed Mycroft suspiciously, "advised my superiors against it in a…very convincing way."

"I couldn't possibly have anything to do with that," Mycroft retorted, letting a tinge of sarcasm seep into his voice.

"Bollocks," Lestrade muttered loud enough for the older Holmes to hear, earning a glare.

Mycroft sighed. "I believe this is my queue to leave you gentlemen to your own devices."

"As if you were capable of doing that," Sherlock smirked. "Mycroft," he grumbled and waved him off as a goodbye.

Picking up his umbrella and regarding the men present with a court nod he went down the stairs and out the door into the chilly night.

It was a tiring day for the British Government, quite literally and something told him that it was far from over. Mycroft would even call it a successful day was it not for his brother's odd denial concerning the return of their former and present enemy.

As he breathed in the winter air he couldn't help but feel a little bit on edge himself but failed to reason the cause. Or perhaps the cause was staring him right in the eyes, he mused, watching the inconspicuous black car turn the corner and stop in front of him.

"Sir," his PA greeted him once he seated himself and closed the door.

"Is there anything else on the program today, Devon?" he addressed her by her name of the month and glanced outside the window as they drove away from Baker Street.

"Officially? No. Lady Smallwood called to confirm the 8 o'clock meeting tomorrow and you are also expected to meet with the Czech PM upon his arrival at noon, followed by a lunch concerning the…Esmond situation."

"Ah. Yes. That will surely be a lovely afternoon," he noted. "What about the unofficial part?"

"You have received an e-mail approximately an hour ago. You should see it for yourself," she added when he prompted her to continue with a raised eyebrow.

Frowning at her cryptic answer he opened his laptop, suddenly very interested in the message. Nothing could prepare him for what he was about to see.

"_Do you remember when Spencer operated on our little abomination? Looks like Easter is coming early this year."_

It took Mycroft the entirety of a second to know exactly what this message was saying and who it was for. Now he understood Devon's uncharacteristic confusion. There's not much she wouldn't be able to understand. Only this was something just three men yet of this world would decipher and only one of the three would dare to send.

"Does that mean anything to you?" He almost flinched at the sudden voice, but being Mycroft Holmes he simply closed the laptop and tossed his trademark fake smile at his PA.

"I'm afraid not. But I do not ravel in receiving ridiculous riddles this late in the evening. Find out where it came from. And preferably from _whom_ as well," he commanded stoically and observed Devon some more as she nodded and returned to working her Blackberry at the speed of Sherlock's Mind Palace.

His gaze once again slipped to the lights passing outside the window. To anyone, perhaps with the exception of Sherlock, Mycroft looked as unfazed as ever. But on the inside his mind was a full blown storm. And it all revolved around what the message implied.

_Operation Spencer. Sherlock. The dead shall walk. Danger!_

Fear was an emotion Mycroft Holmes usually evoked in others and quite successfully so.

_Operation Spencer. Sherlock. The dead shall walk. Danger!_

It only rarely creeped up on his own mind as a result of someone else's actions.

_Operation Spencer. Sherlock. The dead shall walk. Danger!_

For fear was a weakness and he couldn't afford such commodity.

_Operation Spencer. Sherlock. Sherlock. Danger!_

Yet the more he read between the lines of the message, the more he realized that with every word his well buried fears were about to re-surface until they flood his world with their unwanted presence.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Danger!_

This wasn't a game anymore.

This was war.

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**A/N:** Hello again ^^ Every now and again, you know...when there's a good weather forecast, particular alignment of the stars and planets, excessive amount of UFO sightings, enough GoT characters dying or about die, Doctors regenerating and some deadly pollen in the air, I tend to start writing as opposed to my usual self-proclaimed reader-only persona.

And so it happened yet again, by a freak combination of the afore mentioned situations.

I absolutely love Sherlock (the show..._and_ the man), and I absolutely love a certain British Government employee (or so he says). So naturally I love reading awesome works of your own that include this special person. But Godtiss knows I'll never have enough :D So here I go, publishing what shall be a short...okay, mid-length series mainly featuring the one and only Mycroft Holmes.

Hope I'll be able to quench if only a trifle of your Mycroft (and a bit of subtle or not so subtle Mystrade) fanfiction thirst ^^

Enjoy the read and let me know what you think ;)

Love ya, Lantia ^^

PS: I am not a native English speaker and I do not have a beta. If you spot an undisclosed number of insults to the English grammar, please do not hesitate to return such abominations to its owner (me) so I could transform them into their proper form. I have also been deformed by years of watching American television so if I ever had the ability to throw in a bit of proper English slang every now and then I certainly don't possess it now. So please excuse Lestrade and his lot in the Yard for being a bit...dull I guess? ;D


	2. CH1: Esmond

**Chapter 1 - Esmond**

The afternoon was taking its precious time to fade into night and leave this boring endeavor behind them. Mycroft sat opposite the Czech PM and his humble escort and listened with pure interest to whatever the man had to say. On the outside, at least.

If he wasn't the professional that he was, he wouldn't even care to remember the man's name. Not that the political turmoil of the country was helping very much with that, having their Prime Ministers changed as often as the winds turned amongst the political parties.

How annoying.

Not that he would let his inner thoughts show for as much as he would love to berate the PM for his failures this was not his PM to berate. And so he listened, observed and behaved like a proper Government should.

Out of the corner of his eyes he viewed the man sitting to the PM's left. _Tomáš Nosek_. Now _this_ was his man to berate if the after-lunch small talk continues for any longer. This matter needs to be resolved with haste; Mycroft has countries to run after all, no time to spare for the soon to be ex-PM of the Czech Republic.

As if sensing the silent musings of the British Government the so far quiet man on the left cleared his throat politely and addressed the PM with a few muttered sentences in Czech.

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes," the PM said with an affable smile and stood up, all the men present following suit. "I have to take an important call. A za hodinu máme další schůzi, je to tak?" he confirmed with the man on his right.

"That is quite alright. It was a pleasure, Prime Minister," Mycroft replied with a slight bow and with a few more words of goodbye and a handshake the PM and his company retreated towards the exit of the lounge.

"Whose call is the good PM receiving, Thomas? I will have to send my regards to them," Mycroft noted with amusement as the man closed the door and walked back to Mycroft instead of leaving with the group.

"His wife…I think," Thomas replied with a hint of sarcasm, but his face soon turned serious. He sat down opposite Mycroft and pulled out a cigar, taking the offered matchbox with thanks. He was a younger fella, Mycroft mused, probably around Sherlock's age and the cigar looked a tad bit out of place as he held it to his mouth, lighting it. "Thank you, for responding and receiving me so quickly," the man said in almost perfect, if only more American-English after a moment of silence in which he took a few drags.

Mycroft subtly observed him, noting the lines of exhaustion carving his face and the genuine spark of gratitude in his eyes as the younger man looked straight at him. "Yes, well. I do recognize urgency when I hear one," he said indifferently.

Thomas frowned. "Interesting, I thought I sent you a _written_ email," he shrugged, faking being deeply in thought over the matter.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the other agent's antiques Mycroft simply sipped his tea with a smirk. "Indeed. It was a very loud email."

Thomas snickered and giving in to his exhaustion he sat further, more comfortably into the sofa. "The request could not arrive at a worse moment though. I understand you have…quite a situation to deal with yourself without other countries…butting in with their own issues."

"True, yet here we are. From what I gathered the transfer of the person of interest is imminent. You do not however trust your own security to provide protection for the person in question."

Thomas' face turned into a scowl. "I'm afraid not. The last attempt at the man's life came directly from within our ranks. This is why I am dealing with the matter personally now," pausing, he put the cigar to the ashtray and pulled a single black folder from the suitcase lying almost forgotten next to the coffee table. "Here are the details of his new identity. Once we resolve our internal issues and the court resumes prosecution we will be back for him. Then, and only then, I will contact you about it again," he added when he saw the prompt in the older man's eyes as they scanned over the folder's contents.

"I see," Mycroft said absently. "Rest assured that by tonight Mister…_Koller_ will be enjoying his middle-class businessman life in an appropriate dwelling in London."

"And his security detail?"

"I have chosen it myself. They have worked such cases before; all with illustrious results. I assure you they will be discreet and professional."

Thomas visibly relaxed into the sofa and resumed smoking his cigar. "Good," he sighed. "Are there any news? On Moriarty, that is."

Mycroft gave him a weary look and slightly shook his head. "None as of right now. We do not even know whether it really is the man himself or not. But I am sure it will all unravel soon."

"With both the Holmses on the case? I've got no doubts about that. But whoever it is, he certainly knows how to get attention. I'm afraid many will take the message as a…call to arms," the agent said thoughtfully.

"Good," Mycroft replied, surprising the other man. "It will be considerably easier that way to identify and apprehend anyone who yet wishes to associate with the criminal."

"Ah, I see," he smirked. "Of course _you'd_ want to take an advantage of a disastrous situation."

"Naturally. And it can hardly be called disastrous. Not yet anyway," Mycroft muttered and watched the other man's smirk widen.

"Let's hope it'll stay this way then."

Something in that statement made Mycroft pause and stare at the bottom of his empty tea cup.

_Hope_. What a ridiculous notion.

After he parted with the agent and retreated to the sanctuary of his office he resisted the urge to light himself a cigarette. Thomas certainly didn't help quench his old habit with that cigar. And while the events of the past few days could be called all but mundane, they were far from a cigarette level situation. Perhaps a glass of wine later this evening instead.

He spotted Devon entering the room and silently moving towards him. "The Esmond files, as you requested," she said and placed a single dark blue folder in front of him.

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock?" he asked flatly all the while inspecting the presented files.

"Currently dealing with the Homeless network. It seems he suspects someone from Moriarty's web he failed to uncover and dispose of is responsible for the broadcast."

Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment almost as if he wasn't interested in the news at all and continued to focus on the folder.

"Sir?" Devon started, shifting slightly closer to Mycroft. "Perhaps showing him the full length of the tape would help him figure this out faster?"

Mycroft blinked, finally looking up at her. He respected his PA's opinions. In some situations he would even go as far as _requesting_ her views on the matters. But essentially, _thinking_ was not part of her job description and thinking _for_ him certainly wasn't. So he couldn't help but wonder what the motivation behind this sudden advice that crossed certain boundaries was.

Instead of confronting her about it he decided to obscure his inner thoughts with fake surprise and a frown. It is the silent observation that is his forte after all. "Unnecessary. The extended message was not meant for Sherlock," he said firmly and waited for her response.

Devon noticed her mistake, but she seemed determined to go further. "You've shown Lady Smallwood. And the others. Yet the extended part was not meant for them either."

True. Of course she must choose to pry into things now when he really, _really_ didn't want her to. Not that he could blame her. She is far from stupid and cannot help but see the discrepancies in his reasoning. Especially since there usually aren't any.

"I've also looked into the message you've received yesterday," she added before he could muster more lies. "We were unable to locate the source, but I have found files concerning Operation Spencer that was hinted in the email."

"And?" Mycroft asked, still feigning innocence.

"The details seemed to have been erased, but you were the one who filed the report for the operation. Yet yesterday you insisted you didn't understand what the message could imply."

What a subtle way to tell someone you think you are a dirty little liar. Perhaps a pay rise was in order. "Details of our operations are usually erased for a good reason," he stated, his voice icy as the cold wind blowing outside.

She flinched, but her voice was steady as ever. "It'd probably be for the best for those details to never see light of day then. The sender seems to have a different opinion on this."

Definitely a pay rise. "Find him. And make sure he reconsiders that opinion."

She nodded in silent understanding and if she wanted to confront him about the lie she decided now is not the time as she turned around and left, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume.

Mycroft sighed and looked back down at the single paper he received from Thomas today and placed it gently among the other files of the Esmond folder before sealing it again. Devon may not approve of his secretiveness and should Sherlock find out he had in fact withheld evidence from him he will never hear the end of it either.

But they are both better off not knowing. This is not their battlefield to fight at. And he will ensure it never becomes so.

_**oooOOOooo**_

There were times Lestrade wished homicide was also not his division. Perhaps he could transfer to the DEA. God knows he has enough experience with drugs busts. Or maybe something even less stressful like…animal control. Hunting stray cats down the street would surely beat the heck out of two murders in one evening.

"Hey boss, long time no see," Donovan greeted him sarcastically. "Bit of a deja-vu, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

She nodded ahead and walked him over to the alley behind the building. "We've got three blokes again. Single bullet to the heart. No connection between them at all. Sensing a pattern there?"

Lestrade frowned as he walked closer to the crime scene and inspected the three bodies lying there as discarded bags of groceries, sprawled behind the dustbins just out of sight. Just like…

"Two triple homicides? In one night? No, scratch that. One _hour_?!"

Definitely not his division. Sherlock's on the other hand…

"You gonna call _him_ on this?" Sally asked and quirked her eyebrow at him.

Lestrade put on his best offended face and turned to his partner. "I don't need to call Sherlock on every-"

"Oh please, you were thinking about it just now," she smirked at him when he dropped his façade in surprise.

He sighed and looked back at the dead men. Something about this was off. Three…no, six random fellas, two different locations, six bullets. Serial killers rarely use fire-arms and even more rarely with such precision. This was more like an execution. But why. Those last three were all from different parts of London. An office worker, bank manager and a gardener. No criminal record. Nothing. For all they knew those men never even met each other.

Lestrade snapped out of his thought process with a flinch. This pattern felt familiar. But for the love of beer he could not recall why. When had he seen this before? When had he -

"We've got another one!" Sally interrupted his musings already half way heading towards their car.

"What?!" he yelled and turned around to follow her all the while barking orders back at the METs on the scene.

And then he remembered.

Stopping abruptly just few meters away from the car he gasped, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

"Boss?" Donovan called from the car, but he paid her no attention while he all but sprinted back to the crime scene.

_Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong._ He continued the silent mantra in his mind as he kneeled by the dead men and checked their fingers for rings.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, collecting three simple golden rings and taking one to inspect it closer.

'Fire,' said the first engraving on the inside of it.

"Fire could mean…passion. Passion and love. Right? Right?" he muttered and moved to another one.

'Give me food and I shall live.'

"Oh no…," he sighed and taking the third he could almost hear the pillars of hope he constructed on the way from the car to here just crumbling down like a failed jenga tower.

'Give me water and I shall die.'

"What am I?" he added in a whisper.

A riddle. Of course it was a bloody riddle! He squeezed the three rings into a deathly grip inside his fist and slumped down on the concrete.

"What's wrong?" Sally breathed out as she ran up to him.

Lestrade almost wanted to laugh because the sheer level of wrong in this situation was so high it was ridiculous. All he managed in the end was a manic chuckle.

"Call it off," he whispered.

"Call it…what?! We've just got called in to another-"

"Sally!" he snapped at her making her cringe. "Call it off. Our guys, the METs, all of them. Just do it. I'm saving us a lot of time, trust me," he added when she still wasn't moving.

"Okay, fine! Fine," she grumbled. "Alright everybody, listen up!" she started but Lestrade simply zoned her voice out.

This was not happening. This just wasn't happening. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pressed 1 for a speed-dial.

"Yes?" came a weary voice from the other side.

He opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. As if something was just blocking the words from forming on his lips. And in that moment he recognized that something as sheer fear. Absolute fear.

"…Detective Inspector?" the voice prompted him again. He could almost see the other man's face twist in confusion. "…Gregory?"

And finally, his name snapped him out of the frightful reverie.

"Esmond is going down," he whispered, his voice breaking somewhere along the way so he cleared his throat. "Esmond is going down," he said once more, but more steadily this time.

And if the meaning of those words didn't terrify Lestrade already the sharp intake of breath and a sound of shattering glass he heard from the other side of the line definitely did the trick.

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_**A/N:** _Hope you're enjoying this so far! ^^ More's on the way :3

Lantia


	3. CH2: To thine self be true

**Chapter 2 - To thine own self be true**

Sherlock turned the corner of a darkened alley, his steps hastened with purpose. So far his venture amongst the Homeless network was a colossal waste of time but he wasn't about to give up. Somebody knew something. Somebody _had to_ know something. This was Moriarty for his Skull's sake!

If he was back the underground should be positively buzzing with the news of the consulting criminal's return. But so far it seemed that the latest football results were of more importance. How ridiculous, who even watched that anyway! Well, Gerard probably did. Or was it Gale? Gareth? Garry? Yes, Garry. If he watched something more informative perhaps his police work wouldn't be so sluggish.

And Sherlock would be out of a job.

Cringing at the thought he entered what used to be an old pub, but now could be fairly described as a drug den. Good thing John was not with him, he'd probably not even let him in. Hopefully there were no CCTVs around either. He should make sure his annoyance of a brother has enough work to do. Maybe start a war somewhere or send his observations about the Royal family to the press. That worked last time.

"Heiya, mate," a man's voice called out to him and he was soon met with a short, gawky looking fella.

"Moriarty, what do you know about him? Tell me," he blurted out and pulled the other man into an abandoned room for more privacy.

"I said nothing 'bout no Moriarty," the man frowned.

"You said you had information!"

"Oh I do."

"I do believe my message was quite clear this morning. It said information on Moriarty!" How can Mycroft deal with the ordinary folk on daily basis was beyond him. Not that he'd ever ask his brother.

"I know what is said alright. But this is bigga than your Moriarty business mate," he said with a grin.

Bigger than Moriarty? Clearly this man was on some strong stuff. Maybe he could hook him up. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts he regarded this…soon to be ex-member of his network. "What is it then?"

"There's a message goin' 'round…certain circles since yesterday, certain deadly circles if ya know what I mean."

Assassins. Well, Moriarty did have quite an extensive number under his influence after all. Number that shrank all the way to zero after his very detailed clean up throughout the past two years. "What is it?"

"It says: Easter is coming early this year."

"Is that it? Makes no sense-"

"That's what I said. But then my little birdie whispered meaning."

"And?"

The man frowned, apparently surprised that the consulting detective failed to decipher it himself. "Easter. It's a reference to the Bible. It celebrates Jesus Christ's reincarnation. The message says someone's coming back from the dead."

It was Sherlock's turn to frown. "Moriarty, obviously. He's coming back from the dead. Yet you've said this was not about him. Why?"

"Cuz it ain't. There's somebody else. Somebody else is comin' back from the dead."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes scanning his face for more answers, but he found none. None of importance anyway. "Who?"

His face twisted in what Sherlock could only interpret as caution and fear.

"Well? Who is it?!"

Hesitantly, the man told him.

**oooOOOooo**

It's been a while since he last sat in the ever so comfortable chairs of Mycroft's office. Usually their meetings were so brief he could just about stand at the door and not even bother to enter the room. Not that he'd complain. The lesser time he spent with the elder Holmes the better. The younger one's a handful on his own without the uncomfortable presence of his brother to enhance the experience, thank you very much.

But someone somewhere decided it would be a good idea to change that fact and pretty much throw him in the British Government's face. Oh whoever this poor bastard is he's so dead. He better be terrified. Not only had he earned the wrath of Mycroft himself but pretty much the entire Yard's wrath as well. He'd make sure of that.

He wanted to get up and pace around the room. The silence was killing him. And so was the inactivity. But soon he heard footsteps from beyond the door and so remained seated. It could only be one out of two people after all. And he was damn sure one was frantically carrying out the other's orders right about now. Which left…

…Mycroft. The older Holmes slowly entered the room, closing the door lightly, but not moving towards his place behind the desk.

Lestrade studied the other man, trying to make a deduction of his own to see how bad this situation really was. But Mycroft was one impossible man to read especially in cases like this; even Sherlock would have a hard time. So instead of futile wondering he asked, voice low: "How many?"

"Nine," came the equally silent answer.

So there were two more. Two more murder scenes he didn't need to inspect to know what has occurred and to whom. He may not know the details but he knew enough.

Mycroft finally moved over to the desk and eased himself into his chair. "All thanks to you," he said softly after a moment in which he regarded Lestrade with a calculating stare. "The number might have gone up extensively should you have not been there to notice the pattern."

"Too much of a déjà-vu to miss," he cringed and lowered his eyes. "You don't think this could be-"

"Of course not!" Mycroft cut him off, not wishing to hear the rest of the sentence.

Lestrade stared at him with a harsh expression for a while. "You can't know that," he said, stressing each word.

Something in Mycroft's eyes stirred. He remembered hearing a similar reply from someone recently. From none other than John Watson, his brother's ever present voice of reason, or _friend_…or whatever Sherlock insisted on calling him. And for a moment he could swear both him and Sherlock were wrong to dismiss the concept of certain someone being involved in matters so quickly.

In fact, he knew they were wrong.

The message he received followed Moriarty's announcement. And that was no coincidence. No. The message followed the death of Magnussen. Or should he say murder instead?

"Is it Moriarty then?" Lestrade's voice broke his train of thoughts.

"Might be," he lied. There were times that the fact would surprise Mycroft. But he has lied to this man on so many occasions throughout recent years that he almost does it naturally now. He paused before adding: "If he's back it's not just Sherlock he is after this time."

Lestrade nodded. "Makes sense," he muttered. "But why? Why would he kill your agents and their protégés? Unless of course _they_ were the targets," he paused suddenly. "And how could he know? About _Esmond_? I thought only you handle those files."

"I do. But it's not like I sleep with them under my pillow. Someone from the inside could have leaked them."

"Who? Charlotte…Anthea…Geraldine…whatever her name is right now?"

"Possibly."

"Cut the shite, Mycroft, will ya?" he snapped, actually making the elder Holmes flinch. "I know I'm just a daft old me but we both know that even if you had a nark among…whoever it is you work with, they could never reach those files alive. Courtesy of Anthea herself. And _she_ would drink from the bottom of the Thames with her legs stuck in a ton of concrete before she betrayed you to Moriarty…or is it Moriarty at all? 'Cause I don't think it is!" he hissed and watched the other man lower his gaze.

Mycroft mumbled something, his head bowed, not being able to look at the detective.

"Say again?"

"It is not Moriarty," Mycroft repeated slowly, glancing at Lestrade, each word a bullet hitting its target with deadly precision.

"So it is him," he whispered, fear yet again settling in. "You think it's him. No, you _know_ it's him. And you'd lie to me about that? For God's sake why?!"

This time he did stare him right in the eyes. "Because the less you know the-"

"Bollocks! How much more do I need to know?! I know everything about this, remember? I was bloody there!"

"It is none of your concern anymore," he tried but one look at the detective told him exactly where he could shove those words.

"Like heck it isn't! Explain this to me, because I'm at a loss here. You were going to let me go home, fix myself a dinner, check the football scores and relax all the while there's like a million reasons for me to get a bulletproof vest, buy a rifle and hunker down by the window checking for snipers instead?!"

Mycroft simply stared at him, his eyes finally betraying emotions he managed to keep hidden this whole evening. Scratch that. These past two days.

Lestrade was stunned, to say the least, by the sudden change. "You…you really have no idea what to do, do you," he blurted out, completely flabbergasted.

The absolute shock and horror he saw on Lestrade's face made him look away. "I do not," he breathed out.

That was a first, Lestrade thought as he gaped at Mycroft, noticing the emotions dancing in his eyes. Confusion, desperation…fear. Mycroft was afraid. _Afraid_.

"Does Sherlock know?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

Mycroft gave him a weary look.

"Will you tell him?"

He paused at that. "He does not need to know," he decided.

"Like I didn't need to know?! Bloody hell, Mycroft! The last time he didn't know that bastard almost got him killed! Almost got all of us killed. And you want to keep him in the dark now? With Moriarty lurking about as if this was not bad enough? I swear to god, Mycroft Holmes, if I didn't know any better I'd say you're the stupidest person I know." It didn't sound as harsh as he'd wish it would be but it did the trick. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him for a moment there, frowning. The same look Sherlock gives him when he's deep in thought over something that had been said.

"Oh enlighten me then, _Detective Inspector_, what should I tell my brother," he spitted out.

"The truth!" Lestrade all but shouted at him.

"Truth?! I see. Well then…perhaps something on the lines of: 'Hello brother mine, do you remember our dear oldest brother? You know? The one you absolutely idolized as a child? Yes, the one I killed all those years ago? Well, we can finally get it out of our hair then, because he is not dead! He is in fact going about killing people, just like he had always done. Imagine that.' What a brilliant idea, Gregory! I should go tell him right away!" he hissed at the detective and stormed out of the office before the other could even think about a reply.

* * *

**A/N:** Hei, so I am currently finishing my studies abroad, it's my last week so I plan to stud...I mean party day and night until Sunday when I return home. Depending on how much Palinka and beer will be involved in these celebratory activities I might or might not update before next Monday ^^  
Thank you for the kudos and everything, love you all! ^^ Hope you're enjoying this so far, I'll see you next week :3


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